


Dragons

by GrayJay



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: All New X-Men, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:02:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrayJay/pseuds/GrayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Uncharted territory</em> is a good term for it: his life hasn’t been on any kind of map in what feels like a very long time. He wonders what that would make the other Scott--the part that says <em>Here There Be Dragons</em>, maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime around _All-New X-Men_ #40. As always, thanks to E.

_Dear Dad,_

_It’s weird being back on Earth. Good-weird, but weird. And I miss you. But it’s good to be back with the team._

_Is it okay that I went back? I feel like maybe I screwed up, even though you said it was okay. I’m glad you got to meet the others, at least (even if I know you sort of already had)._

_I’m still trying to figure out what the Vortex did. Nothing seems different, but I’m worried I might be missing something. So much has changed in the last few months. I don’t really have a baseline to figure this out from._

_I think everyone’s avoiding me._

* * *

When he hears the quiet rap on his door, Scott’s hand goes to his glasses on reflex. No one ever knocks here. Professor K used to, and Laura once or twice; but Professor K is gone, and Laura’s always off somewhere with Warren. Scott kind of wants to take Warren aside, warn him to be careful, that an adamantium skeleton doesn’t make someone unbreakable; but he’s pretty sure it would look like something other than what it is, and he doesn’t want to make things weird. Weirder.

Still, though. He worries.

The only people who show up at his door these days are Professor Rasputin and the other X-Men--the real ones, _his_ X-Men--and they usually just barge in. No one else ever--not that it’s a big deal, really. He gets why he’d make them uncomfortable. Considering.

There’s another knock, a little louder. “Come in,” Scott tells whoever’s on the other side, and drops his hand back to the desk. There are easier ways of getting to him, if someone were trying to.

 _Maybe it’s Jean_ , he hopes, and immediately tries to quash the thought. Still, things are different now. Maybe they’re different enough. Maybe now she would knock.

It’s not Jean. Of course it’s not. It’s _him_ \--grown-up, screwed-up him, the Scott who lost everything and murdered one of the only people in the universe who mattered; and Scott still has no idea how he's supposed to talk to him.

“Hey,” says Other Scott. “Are you busy? I can--”

“I’m not busy,” Scott lies.

Other Scott smiles a little sadly, which seems to be the only kind of smile that Other Scott has. “In a few years, you’re going to work out that you’re not actually a very good liar.”

“Oh,” says Scott, because what the hell is he even supposed to say to that?

“Sorry,” says Other Scott. “Anyway. I can come back later. I just wanted--” He trails off, and Scott hesitates, because for once in his life, he’s actually pretty sure he knows exactly how someone feels.

“No,” says Scott. “It’s cool. I was just writing a letter.”

Other Scott nods. “Are you going to send it?” It’s not a question anyone else would think to ask, and Scott doesn’t want the familiarity to be as comforting as it is.

“I don’t know,” Scott tells him, then amends, “Probably not.” He’s not even sure he could if he wanted to. _How do you mail a letter to space?_ It probably involves transcription and electronics, and other people seeing every word.

That’s not really why he writes them, anyway.

Other Scott’s mask hides most of his face, even more than the visor does. _Tactical misdirection_ , Scott thinks: _Look at the X, not the face underneath. The symbol, not the man._.

“Sorry,” says Other Scott. He’s nervous, Scott realizes--he doesn’t really know what to do with this, either. “That was intrusive. Out of line. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Scott, and he’s surprised to realize that he’s telling the truth. “I mean--you would know, right?”

“I guess,” says Other Scott. “Although it’s not like--you’re in uncharted territory at this point, really.”

“I guess,” Scott echoes. _Uncharted territory_ is a good term for it: his life hasn’t been on any kind of map in what feels like a very long time. He wonders what that would make the other Scott--the part that says _Here There Be Dragons_ , maybe. “You want to come in?”

“Oh,” says Other Scott, like he’s surprised, like he wasn’t the one who knocked in the first place. “Sure, yeah. Thanks.” It’s still unnerving to see so many of his own mannerisms reflected in someone this much older: how much of _Scott_ there still is in this guy, and how hard that makes it to think of him as someone else. Scott had sort of hoped he’d have outgrown--he’s not sure what, exactly--by now. Being himself, maybe.

Other Scott comes in, closes the door behind him, and sits, nervously, on the edge of Scott’s bed. “So. How was space?”

“Okay,” says Scott. “Complicated.” He’s got a pretty good idea of what Other Scott actually wants to know, and he considers waiting, making him ask, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. It’s a lot harder to hate himself when he’s another person, which is part of what makes the whole thing so uncomfortable. He wonders if Other Scott has the same problem. “Dad’s good. He says hi.”

Other Scott smiles that sad smile again, and tugs at the back of his mask. “Thanks. That’s--that’s good to hear. How’s he doing?”

“Okay,” says Scott. “Alive. I guess you probably knew that, though.”

“No,” says Other Scott. “I mean, not this time. Until Kitty called, the last I’d heard was after--” he breaks off, knits his fingers together. “Did anyone tell you about Gabriel?”

“Yeah,” says Scott. _Here there be dragons._

“Okay,” says Other Scott, like that’s the end of it. Having things you’re not okay with talking about probably isn’t something you really outgrow, Scott suspects.

“Dad’s a _space pirate_ ,” Scott blurts out. He’s had this conversation with a lot of people already, but still--

Other Scott bursts out laughing. “Yeah. Dad’s a space pirate. Jesus, the things you get used to, huh?” And Scott laughs, too, because, _yeah_ , there are some things--and it’s nice knowing that someone gets it, even if it’s really just another version of him.

“When did you find out he was alive?” Scott asks. “The first time, I mean. He never said.”

Other Scott’s brow furrows under the mask. “My early twenties, I think? He’d crash-landed on Earth, but it was a while before I worked out who he actually was, and when I did, I didn’t take it particularly well.”

“Yeah,” says Scott. “Me, too. We’re okay now, though.” He wonders if Other Scott ever asked Corsair why he didn’t come back. If it would be okay to tell him. Scott doesn’t like the thought of him not knowing, even if-- “Are you guys? Okay?”

“Hm,” says Other Scott. “We’re--we were okay. I think. I don’t know what the hell we are right now. He probably sees you as a second chance.” He’s silent for what feels like a long time. “A lot of people probably see you as a second chance.”

Scott isn’t sure what to say to that, so instead he asks, “Did you ever meet him? Gabriel?”

“Yeah. I met Gabriel.” It’s so quiet he almost misses it. He can’t read Other Scott’s face under the mask.

“What happened to him?” Scott asks.

Scott’s pretty sure from the way Other Scott’s mouth twists that he’s trying to decide whether to lie. “He was--he lost his mind,” Other Scott finally says. “He killed a lot of people; and then he took over the Shi’ar Empire. If he’d kept going--” he stops, fingers tangled. “Someone had to stop him. And Alex was--” Other Scott breaks off again. “I should have been there.”

“Oh, _God_ ,” says Scott. He doesn’t want to know, but he has to ask anyway. “Alex _killed_ him. He did, didn’t he?” It’s hard enough to reconicile the grown-up Alex with the kid Scott remembers. He wonders if Dad knows, hopes he doesn’t. _This is what we turn into._

Other Scott’s voice is tight. “Alex made a choice no one should have to make,” he says. “You don’t blame him for that. Not now, not _ever_. Do you understand? _You don’t know_.”

“I know,” says Scott. “I really do. When I was--” he doesn’t know how to say it to himself without being cruel: _all the things you never got to have_. Traveling with Dad, with the Starjammers. The Vortex, and a galaxy bigger and more violent and stranger than he could ever have imagined. That there had been a lot of things Scott had assumed he could never do, _would_ never do, and he’s done a lot of them in the last few months. “I don’t blame him.”

“Good,” says Other Scott. “No one gets to judge Alex for that. Not even you.” Other Scott hasn’t mentioned Alex before, and from what Alex said--well, it’s good to see that Other Scott still cares, at least. That he’s still looking out for Alex, even after everything. “You got to meet him, right?”

Scott nods. “He’s an Avenger.” _He hates you_ , he doesn’t say. “I keep worrying about--I mean, if Alex is alive here, that means mine is, too, right? Back in the past? But you found him, and I’m not there to--” Other Scott doesn’t say anything, just purses his lips. “He’s okay, right? In the past? Was it okay for him? Better, at least?” _Than it was for us_ goes unspoken. He’s pretty sure Other Scott will get it.

“Yeah,” says Other Scott. “It was better for him. Not great, but--better, yeah.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and Scott kind of wants to ask if the migraines ever go away, but he also kind of doesn’t want to hear the answer, so he just sits and waits until Other Scott says, “I’m still trying, Scott. I swear to god. I really am.”

“I know,” says Scott. _Even if I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to do._ Every time they have a conversation, every time he sees Other Scott look down rather than meet his eyes, he gets a little madder at the grown-up Hank for dragging him here as some kind of complicated punishment for his older self. Even if he deserves it, which he knows he does, or at least Other Scott does. Probably.

“Look,” says Other Scott, “I know how this must--” and his voice cracks a little. “Trust me when I say that I know exactly how much you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” says Scott, and once again he’s surprised to discover that he’s mostly telling the truth. “Not really. Maybe a little.” He isn’t going to say it--he isn’t going to--but-- “But you killed Professor Xavier. How could you--how could _I_ do that? How could I have become that? He _saved_ us. He raised us. He was--he was _everything_.”

Other Scott sighs. “It’s complicated,” he says, like Scott won’t recognize it as the bullshit dodge it is, like he hasn’t been using it to get out of answering hard questions since he was a kid.

“Are you even sorry at _all_?” Scott demands.

“Jesus.” Other Scott sounds like he’s about to cry. “ _Yes_. I am so sorry. I didn’t even--” he sags, face in his hands, and Scott wishes again that he had any idea what the hell to say. “Even after--I know what he--I don’t even have any illusions about who he was, and--and I’m still--if I could take it back--I’d do anything. I am so sorry. So sorry.”

There’s a lot Scott wants to say, a lot he wants to ask, but all that comes out is, “I think Dad’s younger than you now.”

It gets him a hoarse laugh. “Well. It runs in the family.” Scott’s not exactly sure what Other Scott means by that, and Other Scott must notice his confusion, because he asks, “Did anyone tell you about Nathan?”

Scott tries to place the name. “From the orphanage?

“No,” says Other Scott. “Nathan’s my son.”

Scott blinks. “Your _son_.” He remembers now, from the safety deposit box, the baby booties he hardly noticed because he was so busy staring at the wedding invitation. “With Jean?”

“No,” says Other Scott. “Before Jean. It’s--”

“--Complicated,” Scott finishes.

Other Scott laughs. “Yes. _Complicated_. Nate is--exceptionally complicated. He’s--well, Nate’s a lot of things, but one of them is a time traveler, which is why he’s about twenty years older than me. Well. Physically, at least.” He shrugs. “Again, complicated. Sorry.”

“Oh,” says Scott. “Nate. Wow.” He can’t imagine having a kid. He’d have named it Charles, he thinks, or Christopher. “It’s weird. That you named him that. Since, you know.”

The mask scrunches as Other Scott’s eyebrows go up. Scott reminds himself to ask--another time--about the mechanics, how it channels the energy, how he can even _see_. “Oh, god,” says Other Scott. You still don’t know about Sinister.” It’s not a question, but Scott shakes his head anyway. “Okay,” says Other Scott. “I’m--we need to talk about this. Not now, but remind me, because it’s important. A lot of your memory isn’t exactly what it’s supposed to be, and I don’t want to--I should really talk to Emma first.” He breaks off, shakes his head. “Jesus. I really shouldn’t be the one telling you any of this.”

Scott is only half listening. He’s still stuck on trying to imagine having a kid. Having a family. “Were you a good dad?”

Other Scott looks so sad that he almost regrets asking. “I don’t know. Sometimes. I tried to be.”

“Did you leave?” asks Scott.

Other Scott shakes his head. “Once. At the beginning. I was stupid, and scared. But I came back. I found him, every time. I followed him two thousand years into the future.”

“Good,” says Scott. He thinks about the promise he made in his head, stranded in the middle of nowhere outer space with Dad, wondering if he’d ever get home: that if he had a kid, if he ever got lost, he’d come back. No matter what, even if he was scared, or ashamed. He wonders if Other Scott made the same promise, but it seems too personal to ask, so instead, he says, “No one should grow up like us.”

“No,” says Other Scott. “No one should grow up like us.” He pats the bed, next to him. “C’mere, Scott.”

Scott sits down next to him. Other Scott puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s weird, Scott thinks, that he’s still going to get so much taller. How much he’s going to end up looking like his dad. “I’m not--there’s really no way to say this without sounding incredibly self-serving,” says Other Scott, “But, look, I know how hard you’re trying. I really, really do.”

Scott nods. “I know.”

Other Scott shakes his head. “You really don’t. Trust me. You’re sixteen, and you think--you think the whole world is sitting on your shoulders, and if you flinch, it’s all going to fall down, and it’ll be your fault. And that’s--someone should have told you. That that’s not true. And even if it were, it’s not a fair thing to ask of a kid. Happiness isn’t--you think it’s a commodity for other people. Something you’re not allowed to want. But it’s not. It doesn’t have to be.”

Scott really doesn’t know what to do with any of that. “Okay.”

Other Scott sighs. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to believe any of this. There’s really only one person I would’ve--and it’s not--but someone should’ve told you. And I don’t know if anyone’s going to. So I am. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Scott, again. He looks down at the bedspread so he won’t have to look at the older him, the Other Scott he’s finding it harder and harder to hate. Thinks about how alone Other Scott is, out here in his fortress: Hank, angry enough to break space and time and kidnap them into the future just to rub Scott’s nose in who he used to be; Bobby, who won’t even look at him or say his name. Warren is gone, hollowed out, turned into something else. Jean is dead. Out in space, no matter how glad he was to be there, to have found his dad, he never stopped missing them: a lingering, continual ache, like a phantom limb. _Did you ever tell them?_ , he doesn’t ask.

Other Scott is talking again. “What I’m saying is--you shouldn’t have to--you don’t have to become me. That’s a gift, Scott. It’s--I know you gave up a lot. When you came here. But this is a second chance for you, too.” Other Scott is facing him, and Scott realizes he must be trying to make eye contact, which is--well. It’s not a thing he does, and it doesn’t seem like a thing Other Scott really does, either, which means this is _important_. “I’m--I’m not telling you not to make your own mistakes. But you don’t have to make mine.”

Scott still doesn’t really understand, but he nods anyway. Other Scott is headed for the door, and before he can leave, Scott asks, “Some of it has to have been--some of it was good, though. Wasn’t it? Nathan. And Jean. You got to-- _some_ it was good, right?”

Other Scott doesn’t turn around, just smiles his sad smile over his shoulder. “Yeah. Some of it was good.”


End file.
